“The analysts are making good progress on the Tehran documents,” explained Navot. “There’s no evidence of an active program, but we’ve got them cold on their previous work, both warheads and delivery systems.”

“How soon can we go public?”

“What’s the rush?”

“In a few hours’ time, the mullahs are going to be celebrating Khalid’s demise. A regional change of subject might help.”

“It won’t change the fact your boy is going down.”

“He was never my boy, Uzi. He was the prime minister’s.”

“He wants to see you.”

“I can’t face it. I’ll call him from the car.”

Gabriel placed the call as his motorcade was making the ascent up the Bab al-Wad, into the Judean Mountains. The prime minister took the news about as well as Morris Payne. Khalid was the linchpin of a regional strategy to isolate Iran, normalize relations with the Sunni Arab regimes, and reach a peace deal with the Palestinians on terms favorable to Israel. Gabriel supported the overall goals of the strategy, but he had warned the prime minister repeatedly that the crown prince was an erratic and unstable actor who would prove to be his own worst enemy.

“It seems you got your wish,” said the prime minister in his baritone voice.

“With all due respect, that is a mischaracterization of my position.”

“Can we intervene?”

“Believe me, I tried.”

“When will it happen?”

“Before midnight Riyadh time.”

“Will he go through with it?”

“I can’t imagine he won’t. Not after what I saw today.”

It was a few minutes after nine o’clock when Gabriel’s motorcade rumbled into Narkiss Street. Usually, the children were asleep by that hour, but much to Gabriel’s surprise they flung themselves into his arms as he came through the door. Raphael, a future painter, displayed his latest work. Irene read a story she had composed with the help of her mother. The notebook in which it was written was identical to the one they had found in Princess Reema’s crude cell in the Basque Country of Spain.

You’re dead . . . Dead, dead, dead . . .

Gabriel volunteered to put the children to bed, an operation that proved no more successful than his attempt to find Khalid’s daughter. When he emerged from their room, he found Chiara removing an orange casserole dish from the oven. He recognized the savor. It was osso buco, one of his favorites. They ate at the small café-style table in the kitchen, a bottle of Galilean Shiraz and Gabriel’s BlackBerry between them. The television played silently on the counter. Chiara was puzzled by her husband’s choice of a channel.

“Since when do you watch Al Jazeera?”

“They have excellent sources inside Saudi Arabia.”

“What’s happening?”

“An earthquake.”

Except for a couple of vaguely worded text messages, Gabriel had had no contact with Chiara since the morning he departed for Paris. Now he told her everything that had transpired. He did so in Italian, the language of their marriage. Chiara listened intently. She loved nothing more than to hear about Gabriel’s exploits in the field. His stories gave her a connection, however tenuous, to the life she had given up to become a mother.

“It must have been quite a surprise.”

“What’s that?”

“Finding Sarah on your flight to Paris.” She glanced at the television. There were scenes of the latest eruption of violence along the border of the Gaza Strip. Israel, it seemed, was entirely to blame. “They don’t seem to know that anything unusual is going on.”

“They will soon.”

“How will it unfold?”

“The crown prince will tell his father the king that he has no choice but to abdicate. His father, who has twenty-eight other children by four different wives, will undoubtedly take issue with his son’s decision.”

“Who will succeed King Mohammed now?”

“That depends on who was behind the plot to force Khalid from power.” Gabriel checked the time. It was 9:42 in Jerusalem, 10:42 in Riyadh. “He’s cutting it rather close.”

“Maybe he’s having second thoughts.”

“Once he steps down, he loses everything. He probably won’t be able to remain in Saudi Arabia. He’ll be just another prince in exile.”

“I’d love to be a fly on the wall in the royal court right now.”

“Would you really?” Gabriel picked up his BlackBerry and dialed the Operations Desk at King Saul Boulevard. A few minutes later the BlackBerry began to emit the sound of an old man shouting in Arabic.

“What is he saying?”

“A child can be replaced, but not a king.”

It was half past eleven in Riyadh when Al Arabiya, the state-run Saudi news channel, interrupted its usual late-evening fare with an urgent announcement from the palace. The newscaster appeared stricken as he read it. His Royal Highness Prince Khalid bin Mohammed Abdulaziz Al Saud had abdicated, thus relinquishing his claim to the throne. The Allegiance Council, a body of senior princes that determines who among them will rule next, planned to convene soon to appoint a replacement. For the moment, however, Saudi Arabia’s terminally ill and mentally incompetent absolute monarch had no chosen successor.

Al Jazeera, which delivered the news to the wider world, could scarcely contain its glee. Nor could the Iranians, the Muslim Brotherhood, the Palestinians, Hezbollah, ISIS, or the widow of Omar Nawwaf. The White House instantly released a statement declaring its determination to work closely with Khalid’s successor. Downing Street murmured something similar a few minutes later, as did the Élysée Palace. The government of Israel, for its part, said nothing at all.

But why had Khalid surrendered the throne for which he had fought so ruthlessly? The media could only speculate. The Middle East experts were unanimous in the opinion that Khalid had not abdicated voluntarily. The only question was whether the pressure had been applied from within the House of Saud or without. Few reporters or commentators made any attempt to hide their joy over his fall, especially those early supporters who had cheered his rise to power. “Good riddance,” declared the important columnist from the New York Times who had prematurely crowned Khalid the savior of the Arab world.

Among the many mysteries that night were Khalid’s exact whereabouts. Had anyone bothered to ask the chief of Israeli intelligence, he could have told them definitively that Khalid flew to Paris immediately after his contentious meeting with his father and, absent his usual entourage, slipped anonymously into the Hôtel de Crillon. At five the following afternoon, he received a phone call. The voice at the other end, digitized and perversely affable in tone, issued a set of instructions, then the call went dead. Frantic, Khalid rang Sarah Bancroft in New York. And Sarah, at Khalid’s request, called Gabriel at King Saul Boulevard. Needlessly, as it turned out, for he was monitoring events in the Op Center and had overheard everything. The kidnappers wanted more than Khalid’s abdication. They wanted him.

31

Tel Aviv–Paris

Actually, it was a bit more complicated than that. What the kidnappers wanted was for Gabriel to handle the final negotiations and logistics of Princess Reema’s release. They characterized their demand not as a threat but as a humanitarian gesture, one that would guarantee the safe return of the hostage, always the most perilous element of a kidnapping. They preferred to deal with a professional, they said, rather than a desperate and sometimes volatile father. Gabriel, however, was under no illusion as to why the kidnappers wanted him at the other end of the phone. The men behind the plot, whoever they were, whatever their motive, intended to kill him at the first opportunity. And Khalid, too.